


And I'll fall but only halfway

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Not a romance, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow's thoughts on a certain Sharon Carter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'll fall but only halfway

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look at me. I don't know what this is.

It’s a stupid thing, the bet.

Or at least it is, to him. But it’s also a tradition, or so that what the slightly older agents have never failed to say. And Rumlow doesn’t argue. Much. He means, he could throw a good swing and actually _land it_ ―but five years in SHIELD (or Hydra, and _especially Hydra_ ) aren’t that great to go by, so he learns to keep his trap shut where it’s not wanted.

And this is how the bet goes. You see a pool of newbies at the Academy when you’re invited (force to go) to one of their training sessions, and you bet on the ten, or one of them, that would actually seem like they’d have a chance to pass on being, well, actual SHIELD agents without doing any background checks.

Brock’s not particularly interested―he’s only there because he was promised beers―cringing at the sight of rookies going ‘round the training room while they try to navigate a training course that doesn’t look at all as challenging as the real thing he’s dealt with most of the days.

“They all look the same to me,” he grumbles at one of the senior agents, who laughs and pats his back.

“It’s tradition, laddie.” The guy answers back with his thick Scottish accent and Brock groans aloud―annoyed to be called _laddie_ like he’s some dumb little kid, and more annoyed that knowing these guys for as long as he does, that there’s no way out of this.

And then he spots this girl. Nothing astounding. Medium frame, sharp eyebrows, bouncy golden hair tied in a ponytail―and she moves swiftly, a staff in her hand, like it’s coded in her DNA to move as she does, sharp jabs into the air, clean twirl―and then one wrong move, just a misstep, she falls. Horribly.

The boys Brock’s with groan mockingly, laugh. “Awh, sweetie―” Brock hears one of them say, “Better be careful next time, yeah?”

She glares.

And nothing really happen next―the session ends, the guys pass a joke or two, pick their favourite recruits and count their money to bet. While Brock watches, thinks and ponders. They’re on their way out (to a _bar_ , thank God) when he notices the same bouncy golden hair again, sweat staining the back of her black shirt while she jogs passing him, then her file drops.

Brock turns around to pick it up.

“Uh―” She begins to say, he looks up. (And he tries not to cringe much when he notices how sweaty she is.) “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” He says when he’s fully up, a hand out to give her file back to her. “You did good out there.”

“Hah.” She replies with a certain snark that he raises his eyebrow to, interested, but nods her head as she takes the file. “I fell. Everybody saw. I get it.”

“You did good,” he doesn’t comment more, shrugs while he slides his hand down the pockets of his jeans. “You’re one of the top five to finish the whole training session.”

“Still not number one.” She announces it like it’s obvious, and he shrugs some more, breathes out.

“Don’t matter." He says truthfully, then pauses, looks at her once and finally decides to admit it, “I bet on you. Number Thirteen, right?” It’s the recruits’ number―yeah, he asks around.

“But―” She doesn’t sound surprise that there’s a bet, but she does sound... surprised. And suspicious. “How could you be... sure? To bet on me?”

“I’m not. S’why they call it gambling, _Thirteen_.”

“And what happens if I fall again?”

Brock rolls his eyes, “ _Don’t_.”

And walks away.

(He wins the bet.)

.

That was four years ago.

.

He doesn’t recognise her when he sees her the next time she’s lounging around Cap’s apartment. Well, not _lounging_. It’s just a coincidence that by the time he and Rogers were there, she’s on her way out. “Oh, yeah,” the big guy says, blushing a bit as far as Brock can see, “That’s Kate. She’s uh, she’s a nurse. My neighbour.”

“She’s pretty,” He says back in return, half-meaning it. He doesn’t really care if the nurse’s pretty―all he registers is gold hair, curling down at the edge of her shoulders―he’s there to finish up on a report. “You like her?”

“Uh, what? _What?_ " Cap says, ever the _best_ liar, and Brock smirks. “No. Like? What? Uh... no. No. She, uh… she doesn't see me that way.”

There is a hint of laughter that gurgles up at the edge of Brock's teeth, but not too obvious that he'll cringe at it himself. " _She_ doesn't see _you_ that way? Hard to believe."

Cap doesn't deny, looks down for a minute. "We're busy," he says by the fridge, looking all solemn for a moment. "We're busy people. You should know." 

And for a moment Brock stays quiet. Because he does. He does know. Knows it since the first time he signs up for this shit. _Busy?_ Just another code word to mask how stupidly lonely you are.

“Well, okay, just askin’,” He says finally with a huff, settling on one of the chairs. And when Rogers offer a beer, Brock doesn't hesitate to accept it.

.

It’s when he’s making his way out that he realises who she is.

But, surprisingly, he never says a word.

(Doesn’t think it matters.)

.

He’s waiting for Cap―he’s supposed to give the big guy a file from their last mission―when she returns from ‘work’ and she says her hello, while he watches her, stares.

“He might be late,” _Kate_ says, “He always is.”

Brock has a beer in his hand, and he’s not afraid to drink it, “You really _are_ keeping an eye on him, aren’t you?”

“I...” She feigns confusion, “...don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cue a couple of forced out fake laughter, and Brock smirks, impressed. _She’s good_.

“Don’t worry,” he holds the beer out for her as an acknowledgement, “S’not like I have anywhere to go tonight. I’ll wait.” Yeah. Just his bed. For a full knock out of uninterrupted sleep since he’s finally got a day off tomorrow.

“Right.” Nurse-y says again, biting her lower lips. “I’ll just... _go_.”

“Yeah.”

“S’nice to see you again, uh...?”

“Rumlow.”

“Of course.”

The door’s unlocked, she’s getting in. Brock swallows a mouthful of beer, then croaks out, “Oh, and―” He knows she’s turning around, eyes wide on him. “I won’t say a word.”

She closes the door.

.

He doesn’t come around to the apartment anymore. 

Mainly ‘cause he’s never been one to keep up a decent straight face when he knows something’s up―he’s not like Cap, dear lord, ‘cause the guy probably can’t lie to save his life, but you know,never been one to be so engrossed in undercover either. Therefore, lying? Just enough to pass. But he has her in mind once in a while. Especially when the Widow can’t keep mentioning ‘the nurse across the hall’ enough to Rogers.

It’s weird. But it’s not anything special.

Life goes on.

.

" _You picked the wrong side, Agent_.”

“ _Depends on where you’re standing_.”

When he ponders this over, sometimes he’s glad she’s not Hydra.

.

All and all, he’d probably still bet on her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, who gets the Agent Carter's preference?


End file.
